GIFT   OF 
Class    of   1900 


Cheats  from  a 
Jfterfute 

OR 

Poems  of  Life 


To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  He  too  deep  for  tears."    - 

—  Wordsworth 


CENTURY 

PRINTING*    AND    FTTBLISHINO    Co. 


1605     BROftDWTW,    OAKLAND,    CAL. 


from  a 
Jfteefctte 

OR 

Poems  of  Life 


BEN  FRANKLIN  BONNELL 


"To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears." 

—  Wordsworth 


TWENTIETH    CENTURY 
PRINTING    AND   PUBLISHING    Co. 


1605    BROADWAY,    OAKLAND,    CAL. 


COPYRIGHT 

APPLIED   TOR 

1902 


tf#  writing  these  few  lines  of  introduction  of  this  little  book- 
let for  my  friend,  the  author,  I  will  say  that  I  consider  it  a 
noble  ambition  for  one  to  wish  to  leave  to  the  world  his  best 
thoughts.  That  one  can  not  sing  in  a  grand  strain  is  no  reason 
why  he  should  not  sing  at  alL  It  is  the  soft  sweet  music  that 
reaches  the  soul.  True  poetry  like  trzie  eloquence  is  very  rare. 
It  is  some  times  grand  and  some  times  simple  but  always  touch- 
ing and  tender.  It  springs  from  the  imagination  upon  the 
gossamer  wings  of  emotion  and  looking  through  the  eyes  of  the 
soul  far  into  the  realms  of  unfading  beauty  it  gathers  its  inspi- 
ration from  the  dreamland  of  meditation.  Emerson  says  that 
poetry  is  the  consolation  of  mortal  men.  It  is  more.  It  is  the 
inspiration  of  the  soul.  If  one  who  has  been  manly,  courageous, 
unselfish  and  faithful  in  performing  the  ditties  of  life  shall  pazise 
to  sing  for  us,  will  we  not  listen  and  be  grateful. 

If  we  always  look  upon  the  poetic  side  of  life  we  can  make 
it  one  grand  sweet  song.  A  realm  of  love  and  transcendent 
beauty  where  happiness  ever  abides.  If  the  author  has  assisted 
in  making  the  world  better  and  brighter,  he  will  be  loved  and 
his  name  remembered  long  after  his  voice  has  ceased  to  be  heard. 

OAKLAND,  CAL. 

June,  1902.  E.  M.  GIBSON. 


801890 


-•*qgfr- 

Dedication. 


O  ELIZA  ALFARATA,  iny  beloved  wife  and  soul- 
friend,  I  dedicate  this  little  volumn,  as  a  small  tribute 
to  her  devotion  and  encouragement  under  all  the  circum- 
stances of  life. 

BEN  FRANKLIN  BONNELL. 


Sen 


CONTENTS 


A  Row  of  Stamp  Pictures 

A  Fragment 

Brotherhood 

Diogenes 

Light 

My  Father's  Hymn  Book 

Our  Baby's  Christmas  Tree 

Phreneopathy 

Peace 

Real  Coons  at  a  Camp-meeting 

Silence 

Something  Gone  from  Christmas 

Thanksgiving  Day 

To  a  Lady  Friend 

To  Wife  and  Daughter 

The  Evolution  of  Man 

The  Transcendentalists 

The  Priest  and  the  Poet 

The  Man  of  Galilee 

What?  ^  ,  ,'; 

We  Believe 

Why? 


WHY? 


tried  to  know  why  men  and  women  toiled; 

Why  they  rose  early  and  continued  late; 

Why  they  wove,  and  ploughed,  and  bought  and  sold. 

I  wondered  why  my  father  looked  so  sad 
When  crops  failed,  horses  died,  or  cattle  strayed; 
Or  when  the  price  was  low  on  what  he  sold. 

1  wondered  why  my  mother  said,  with  clouded  brow, 
"I  have  no  time  for  this  pleasure,  or  that; 
But  must  devote  my  time  to  work  and  home." 

I  wondered  why  each  day  of  all  the  year 
Came  loaded  with  its  toils  and  cares; 
Why  men  sought  eargerly  the  load. 

In  respite  from  the  water-jug  and  sheaf 
I  sought  the  brook  below  the  meadow  field, 
Where  birds  and  flowers  no  care  nor  sorrow  know, 

I  wondered  why  the  cornfield  needed  hoe 
When  flowers  grew  so  perfect  of  themselves; 
And  birds  depended  on  no  dinner  horn. 

Called  from  my  childish  reverie  by  the  brook, 
\  ~  •J'.fygffji'ed  through  the  cornfield  home; 
The  broken  stock  which  1  hoed  was  dead; 
But  the  .thistle  I  had  killed  was  growing  green, 

I  wondered  why  it  was  (for  so  it  always  was) 
That  when  my  little  brothers  came 
They  found  my  mother  sick  in  bed. 

I  asked  my  mother  how  the  hickory  trees 
Could  bear  such  fruit  without  our  work  or  care; 
She  said:  "The  Lord  takes  care  of  hickory  trees." 

I  asked  her  how  the  birds  in  snow  and  sleet, 
Found  food  and  shelter,  and  she  said: 
"The  Lord  takes  care  of  birds,  my  son." 

I  asked  her  what  the  preacher  meant 
On  a  Sunday  morn  long  ago, 
By  saying:    "Man  is  better  than  the  birds." 
And  why,  if  so,  God  does  not  feed  him,  too. 
She  smiled  and  said,  'twas  easy  to  explain, 
But  I  should  wait  till  I  was  older  grown, 
And  then  I  better  understand. 


One  day  1  asked  her  if  they'd  have  to  kill 
Our  neighbor  who  had  fallen  from  his  horse, 
And  broken  arm  and  both  his  legs; 
All  present,  but  my  mother,  laughed  aloud, 
And  I  in  shame  sought  refuge  by  the  brook, 
And  waited  till  the  company  went  home. 

I  wondered  why  they  killed  poor  old  blind  Bob, 
Our  horse,  that  blundered  through  the  bridge 
And  struggled  till  he  broke  his  stifle  joint; 
My  mother  sought  me  and  explained  as  best  she  could, 
That  God  had  given  beasts  to  men  to  use; 
To  kill  them  were  a  mercy  often  times; 
But  men  were  holier  if  they  suffered,  so  she  said. 
She  told  me  to  be  patient,  and  sometime 
I'd  go  to  school,  and  learn  about  such  things; 
That  she  and  father  had  not  been  to  school. 
1  wept;  but  not  for  shame;  and  asked  her  to  explain 
What  is  school?  and  where?  and  who  knew  more  than  she 
And  must  I  leave  the  brook  and  her,  and  go  to  school? 
Her  voice  was  tender  and  her  face  was  sad; 
Just  as  it  was  the  night  my  little  brother  died; 
"In  town,"  she  said,  "are  wise  men  teaching  boys." 
1  slept,  as  tired  children  sleep,  but  dreamed 
Of  towns  and  schools  and  wise  men  teaching  boys- 
The  dream  was  real,  but  she  dear  soul,  sleeps  on/ 
I  went  to  town  and  studied  in  the  schools 
The  "wise  men"  taught  me  and  I  learned* 
The  noble  things  that  men  had  thought  and  done. 
From  then  till  now  I've  pondered,  thought  and  read- 
I  ve  listened  earnestly,  when  wise  men  spoke- 
But  none  so  wise  as  mother,  have  I  found. 
What  came  within  her  little  sacred  circle,  she 
Could  tell  me  in  her  sweet  and  quiet  way; 
And  always  when  she  told,  I  understood 
What  lay  beyond  her  observation's  range 
And  I  in  curious  boyish  fancy  pressed. 
She  left  with  God,  and  said  she  could  not  tell. 


I've  listened  to  the  wise,  the  learned,  the  good; 
But  none  like  mother — in  sweet  simple  faith, 
Has  told  me  that  "he  does  not,  but  God  knows/' 

I've  learned  that  men,  like  birds  and  hickory  trees 
Are  symbols  of  eternal  truth  and  love — 
That  one  is  like  the  other — God  in  both. 

1  learned  in  childhood,  while  I  lingered  by  the  brook, 
That  birds,  and  trees,  and  flowers  are  always  true; 
No  holier  lesson  have  I  learned  since  then. 


LIGHT. 


asked  our  preacher  where  the  light, 
Four  days  before  the  sun, 
Came  from;  and  he  with  holy  spite, 
Said  I  was  "making  fun." 


I  said,  "I  only  want  to  know, 
And  so  have  come  to  you;" 
He  said  he  knew  where  1  would  go, 
Before  my  course  is  through. 


He  looked  as  though  he  knew  the  place, 
And  gloried  in  the  thought, 
That  some  day  1  would  end  my  race 
On  earth  and  find  that  spot. 


Long  years  have  passed,  the  light  I  sought, 
Shines  through  all  space  and  time, 
And  in  its  radience  honest  thought 
Has  ceased  to  be  a  crime. 


THANKSGIVING  DAY, 


OW  down,  proud  nation,  'tis  a  day  apart 
From  every  other  day  in  all  the  year. 
Beware,  if  thou  but  feast  and  feed  thy  lust! 

Lift  up  thy  soul  to  him  who  rules  above, 
Nor  once  believe  thy  prowess    has  achieved 
The  greatness  told  of  thee  the  world  around. 

Be  humble,  oh,  ye  people,  and  behold  His  hand, 
In  all  that  thou  for  freedom's  name  hath  wrought, 
And  not  let  pride  deceive  thee  to  thy  fall. 

While  on  thy  knees,  remember  that  when  thou  wast  young, 
When  hardships  many  were  and  pleasures  few, 
Thy  fathers  bowed  and  thanked  Him  for  His  grace. 

Oh,  thou,  this  day,  thy  fathers'  wisdom  prove, 
And  by  thanksgiving  for  all  pleasures  past, 
Secure  His  guidance  through  dark  days  to  come. 


WISH  I  knew  what  hidden  spring  within 
Compels  me  to  instinctively  rebel 
Against  so  many  well  intended  things . 


There  something  in  the  sermon,  prayer,  and  song. 
On  Sunday,  —  all  designed  to  do  me  good, 
That  tells  me  they're  invented  and  unreal. 


What  is  it  in  the  winds  and  swelling  tides, 
And  breakers  dashing  wildly  at  my  feet, 
That  tells  me  what  no  poet  ever  told  ? 


What  is  it  from  the  secret  depths  within, 
That  better  than  all  Bibles  from  without, 
Beholds  the  narrow  way  of  Peace  and  Love  ? 

What  gave  the  mountains  the  deep,  solemn  power, 
To  speak  so  loudly  to  my  listening  soul, 
And  never  once  the  awful  silence  break  ? 

What  is  it  in  the  hyacinth  and  rose, 
When  Science  has  its  studied  story  told, 
That  I  can  see  and  feel,  but  can' t  define  ? 

What  is  it,  when  I  stand  with  open  life, 
Alone  amid  Earth's  soul-inspiring  scenes, 
That  fills  me  with  such  infinite  repose  ? 

What  gave  the  tinted  Autumn -leaf  the  power 
To  teach  me  what  my  noble  race  rejects, — 
That  death's  more  beautiful  than  life  ? 


THE  EveumeN  er  MAN 


MARK     WEST. 


OME  listen,  I'll  tell  you  an  interesting  tale 

You  think  you  were  made  like  a  shoe, 

But  you  came  from  a  microbe,  the  length  of  the  scale, 

And  God  knows  whether  yet  you  are  through. 

You  think  you  began  at  the  top  of  the  scale 
And  have  tumbled  a  little  a — down 
But  you're  off  just  as  slick  as  your  primitive  tail 
Of  which  not  a  scar  can  be  found. 

You're  the  sum  of  all  microbes  and  rodents  and  bugs, 
And  lizzards  and  snakes  of  the  past 
When  a  bull-head  you  wheedled  your  gills  into  lugs, 
And  your  hair  from  your  breeches  you  cast. 

You  may  prate  of  creation,  and  tell  of  the  place 
Where  He  made  you  and  breathed  you  a  soul, 
But  your  carcass  declares  that  you  came  from  a  race 
Wiggled  up  from  some  dark  puddle  hole. 

You  poor  silly  creature,  quit  putting  on  airs, 
You  distress  us — who  study  the  clan — 
You  came  all  the  way  from  the  foot  of  the  stairs, 
You  are  tadpole  as  mnch  as  you're  man. 


A  FRAGMENT 


WO  wild  flowers,  the  white  the  red,  together  grew, 

No  malice  toward  each  other  did  they  bear, 

But  both  seemed  happy  that  God's  garden  gave  them  room. 

No  quarrel  engaged  the  grape-vine  and  the  apple-tree, 
They  grew  in  close  embrace,  one  sour  the  other  sweet, 
I  ate  with  childish  glee  their  fruit,  and  climbed  and  loved  them  both 


MY  FATHER'S  HYMN  BOOK. 


F  all  that  was  his, 'this  one  precious  treasure 

Remains  to  me  now  as  a  relic  of  home: 
But  the  hymns  as  he  sang  them — the  sweet  solemn  measure, 

Can  only  through  soul-swelling  memories  come. 

I  feel  even  now  the  strange  mystic  power 
That  filled  my  young  soul  as  I  sat  on  his  knee, 
While  he  sang;  "How  tedious  and  tasteless  the  hour 
When  Jesus  my  Saviour,  I  no  longer  see." 

His  life  was  as  sweet  as  a  balmy  May  morning, 
Sparkling  with  dew-drops  of  heavenly  grace; 
His  home  every  day  with  some  jewel  adorning, 
As  he  greeted  each  member  in  loving  embrace. 

Tonight  I'm  a  child,  as  sweet  memories  bind  me 
To  the  home  of  my  childhood,  in  days  long  ago, 
When  his  strong  manly  arms  in  affection  entwined  me 
And  I  learned  through  his  love,  his  Redeemer  to  know. 


SILENCE, 


WO  lovers  sat  silent  where  the  shades  of  night 

Like  a  mantel  gathered  near, 
But  they  heeded  it  not,  their  hearts  were  light 
As  they  thought  of  the  future  hopeful  and  bright 

And  their   trust  in  each  other  so  dear. 
All  was  silent;  not  a  sound  the  stillness  broke 

As  her  hand  he  fondly  pressed, 

She  trembled,  her  heart  throbbed,  though  not  a  word  she  spoke 
But  clung  like  the  vine  to  the  sturdy  oak 

With  her  head  upon  his  breast. 

They  sat  together  where  the  shades  of  night 

Like  a  mantle  gathered  near, 
But  they  heeded  it  not,  their  lives  were  complete 
They  were  wrapped  in  the  present,  so  holy  and  sweet, 

And  their  baby  to  them  so  dear. 
All  was  silent ;  just  a  sound  would  their  darling  wake, 

They  had  laid  her  in  the  crib  to  rest, 
Not  even  a  kiss  from  her  lips  could  they  take, 
But  while  silence  reigned  for  baby's  sake 

A  dear  head  found  its  place  on  his  breast. 

They  sat  together  where  a  deep,  dark  night 

Like  a  mantel  gathered  near, 
An  angel  took  away  their  light 
And  a  bank  of  flowers  and  a  casket  white 

Held  baby,  oh!  baby  so  dear! 
All  was  silent;  no  sound  could  baby  wake 

They  kneeled,  her  head  on  his  breast, 
They  prayed,  and  a  gleam  of  holy  light 
Pierced  the  gloom  of  that  awful  night 

And  a  whisper:  "Love  and  Rest." 

Still  they  sit  together  where  the  shades  of  night 

Like  a  mantle  gathers  near, 
But  they  heed  it  not,  they  love  and  rest 
With  her  silvery  head  drawn  close  to  his  breast, 

And  their  trust  in  each  other  so  dear, 
All  is  silent;  they  are  waiting  for  the  last  dark  night 

And  the  morning  of  love  and  rest, 
Another  gleam  of  holy  light 
And  far  beyond  this  world  of  night, 

Three  dear  heads  will  lean  on  His  breast. 


SOMETHING  GONE  FR9M  CHRISTMAS. 

(Lines  written  on  a  Christmas  card  entitled  "To  Absent  Friends"  and  seat  to  wife 

and  daughter): 


OMETHING  gone  from  Christmas  only? 
No,  'tis  gone  from  every  day; 
Gone  to-day,  is  gone  to-morrow, 
Gone  in  joy  is  gone  in  sorrow, 
'Tis  my  loved  one  far  away. 


TO  A  LADY  FRIEND. 


send  this  small  volume  for  memory's  sake, 

And  as  such  you'll  accept  it  1  know, 

Of  our  pledge  to  be  friends,  as  we  stood  by  the  lake 

Where  the  water  hyacinths  grow. 

Forever  impressed  'pon  my  life  is  a  face 

Looking  upward  from  depths  far  below, 

When  you  gave  me  your  hand  as  you  leaned  o're  the  place 

Where  the  water  hyacinths  grow. 

Forever  and  ever,  ah  may  it  be  so 

That  no  blight  to  our  friendship  e'er  come, 

When  earth's  chaos  forbids  that  the  hyacinths  grow 

May  our  spirits  in  friendship  be  one. 

We  treasure  your  gift,  the  blushing  carnations, 

For  their  own  fragrant  selves,  but  the  love  that  they  bore, 

Is  sweeter  than  all  of  earth's  floral  creatures, 

Will  endure  when  earth's  flowers  yield  fragrance  no  more. 


BROTHERHOOD. 


E  is  not  my  brother  simply  because 
His  creed  and  mine  are  one, 
Fraternity's  bound  to  higher  laws 
Than  that  he  is  my  father's  son. 

I  am  brother  to  him,  for  whom  my  souls  yearns, 
He  is  mine,  whose  soul  replies, 
We  could  not  be  brothers  on  other  terms 
Were  he  to  come  from  the  skies. 


THE  PRIEST  AMD  THE  POET. 


priest  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder  stood  weeping, 
A  poet  stood  smiling  at  the  head  of  the  stair; 
Said  the  priest  to  the  singer:  "1  pray  you  to  tell  me 
The  road  that  you  traveled  to  get  where  you  are? 

"I  have  stood  here  as  watchman  and  herald  and  shepherd, 
Since  long  years  before  you  were  born,  night  and  day, 
There  is  only  one  road  to  the  place  you  are  standing, 
End  I  know  that  you  never  ascended  this  way." 

Said  the  poet,  in  turn,  to  the  sad  holy  preacher: 
"You  are  right,  I  am  sure,  so  rest  and  be  calm, 
No  ladder  I  climbed,  no  creed  was  my  teacher, 
God  made  me  up  here,  I  was  born  where  I  am." 


T0  WIFE  AND  DAUGHTER 
(On  me  white  leaf  of  a  Volumrv  of 


'VE  seen  across  the  mystic  border  land 
Where  Lucile,  Maurine  and  Undine  were  born; 
Sweet  angels  beckon  me  to  join  the  band 
But  some  fell  spirit  of  malignity  and  scorn 
Has  sealed  my  lips  and  palsied  my  poor  hand. 

Two  Angels  in  that  holy  adeu  sweet 
Beguile  me  day  by  day  to  loftier  heights, 
The  golden  stair  awaits  my  unhallowed  feet. 
Christ,  help  me  that  this  land  of  pure  delights 
May  be  our  resting  place  in  Thee  complete. 


A  ROW  OF  STAMP  PICTURES. 


HE  first  one  says:  "I'm  myself  you  see 

And  no  one  on  earth  I'd  rather  be." 

The  second  says:  "I'm  satisfied, 

I'm  my  Mama's  joy  and  Papa's  pride." 

The  third  one:  "Life  has  its  toil  and  care, 

And  I  am  willing  to  take  my  share," 

And  whether  joy  or  sorrow  come 

I'll  be  the  sunlight  of  our  home." 

The  fourth  one:  "1  am  here  with  all  my  heart, 

Though  the  picture  man  left  out  a  part." 


Thou  art  thyself  dear  one,  and  yet 
Two  other  lives  unite  in  thee, 
We're  one  on  earth,  'twill  thus  beget 
Sweet  oneness  in  eternity. 


THE  TRANSGENDENTAL2ISTS. 


HOU  bold,  intrepid  Whitman,  thou  with  leaves  of  grass 
Could  Intuition's  holy  cause  give  form, 
Thy  soul  could  rise  from  leaves  and  flowers,  and  pass 
With  holy  rapture,  through  the  thunder-riven  storm. 

Sweet  Emerson,  thou  sun  of  beauty,  grace  and  truth, 

Thy  gentle  spirit  yet  will  teach  the  race 

To  find  eternal  spring — perennial  youth 

Within  the  soul — God's  holy  temple  dwelling  place. 

Blind  Realism,  in  its  lust  and  sensuous  pride 

Blasphemes  the  dignity  you  gave  to  mau, 

But  God,  like  music,  in  the  soul  abides, 

And  all  who  feel  His  presence,  know  salvation's  plan. 

Ye  Transcendentalists  of  every  age  and  clime, 
True  Vanguard  of  pure  knowledge  of  the  soul, 
Your  tune  too  high  was  pitched,  your  age  to  chime, 
But  ever  onward  will  the  cadence  sweetly  roll. 


PEACE. 


counciled  Buddha  and  the  eight-fold  path 
Through  Karma  to  Nirvana  opened  wide, 
V    )\ \   vl      But  like  a  dream  remembered — far  away, 
^  Hanging  within  a  wreath  of  fleecy  cloud, 

But  nowhere  touching  hill  or  vale  for  me, 
Was  open  gate  to  lead  me  on  the  way. 

To  Zoroaster  then  I  turned  in  hope, 
That  he  my  soul  from  sorrow  would  set  free; 
He  pointed  me  to  Ormuzd,  who  beyond 
The  purifying  flames  on  throne  of  light, 
Gave  no  release  till  fire  had  purged  the  dross, 
And  freed  the  soul  from  taint  of  mortal  clay. 

I  sought  the  church,  but  babel  voices  rang, 
Wild  anathemas  in  each  other's  ears, 
Each  proving  by  the  word  of  God,  his  right 
To  people  hell  with  demons  yet  unborn, 
For  God's  own  glory  and  for  justice  sake, 
To  fill  the  souls  of  men  with  endless  woe. 

I  sat  alone  where  evening  zephyrs  played, 

Where  sweet  perfumes  breathed  out  the  closing  day, 

And  birds  retiring  chattered  their  delight. 

Orion  rose  and  took  his  trackless  flight 
Across  the  blue,  arched  dome  of  star-lit  sky, 
Turning  sweet  evening  into  solemn  night. 
No  tempest  followed  ,  but  a  soothing  calm 
Possessed  me,  and  my  wakened  soul  was  tuned 
In  harmony  with  God — the  soul  of  all. 

I  'rose,  wet  with  the  dew  of  silent  night, 
But  filled  with  joy  and  peace  unspeakable, 
Resolved  to  meet  the  future  with  a  smile, 
That  moving  in  my  own  appointed  way, 
My  soul  uplifted,  and  with  God  enthroned, 
I'd  shed  perfume  on  each  departing  day. 


REAL  GOONS  AT  A  GAMP-MEETING, 


WO  coons  once  sat  on  a  hollow  limb 

Listening  to  a  camp-meeting  hymn; 

They  winked  and  looked  in  each  other's  face, 

As  they  heard  the  warbling  tones  of  grace 

Roll  out  upon  the  evening  air, 

To  tell  that  their  names  were  written  there. 

No  gold  nor  silver  did  they  crave, 

The  kingdom  only  would  they  have; 

The  old  coon  coughed  and  wiped  his  eye 

And  said  to  his  mate  "I  hope  to  die 

If  those  singin',  prayin'  mal-contente 

Wouldn't  pull  our  hides  for  fifteen  cents, 

If  only  they  had  eyes  to  see 

Where  we  are  hid  in  this  hollow  tree. 


A  well-fed  hen  in  a  coop  near  by 
Looked  up,  and  a  tear  drop  dimmed  her  eye; 
"Would  God  I  were  as  you  now  be, 
Skin  and  bone  in  a  hollow  tree!" 


WE  BELIEVE. 


million  people  never  yet  believed 
The  one  thing  nor  the  other  just  alike, 
And  never  will  while  earth  and  time  endure. 

One  thinks,  and  then  with  life  and  soul  proclaims 
His  creed,  inspired  by  some  immortal  breath, 
A  million  more  accept  it  on  his  word. 

A  thousand  generations  come  and  go, 

Each  one  professing  that  the  first  man's  thought 

Was  not  of  man,  but  God's  word  to  the  race. 

Thus  "we  believe"  stands  for  belief  of  one, 
And  with  the  million  others  means  consent, 
All  men  are  melted  into  one  man's  mould. 


started  in  to  try  it, 

And  now  I'm  standing  by  it, 

I'll  let  who  will  deny  it, 

It's  all  the  same  to  me; 

The  doctor  says  I've  blundered, 

And  the  preacher  at  me  thundered 

But  I  save  each  year  five  hundred, 

And  am  happy,  well  and  free. 


others  at  a  mother's  meeting, 
Children  playing  on  the  street; 
She  with  other  mothers  seeking, 
Downy  paths  for  little  feet. 


The  work  is  done,  the  path  selected, 
Flower  lined,  with  roses  blown; 
But  the  little  dears  neglected, 
Have  a  pathway  of  their  own. 

Better  hold  your  mother's  meeting 
With  the  children — home  to-day; 
Be  a  child  their  mischief  greeting, 
Soon  your  chance  will  pass  away. 

Condescend  to  know  their  sorrow, 
Understand  them  while  you  may, 
And  their  dimples  will  tomorrow, 
Bewhere  your  wrinkles  are  to-day. 


OUR  BABY'S  CHRISTMAS  TREE. 


HIS  tree  is  loaded  with  true  love, 
No  other  treasure  here  is  seen, 
But  let  its  barren  branches  prove 
At  least  that  love  is  ever-green. 

Did  wealth  within  our  purse  reside, 
The  tree  beneath  its  load  would  break, 
For  every  wind  and  train  and  tide 
Would  bring  some  treasure  for  your  sake. 


THE  MAN  OF  GALILEE. 


IS  said  the  Hebrew  prophets  did  foretell 
The  story  of  the  Man  of  Galilee, 
Before  His  life  began  upon  the  earth; 
That  shepherds  on  the  plains  of  Bethlehem, 
Beheld  sweet  angels  from  their  home  above, 
And  heard  them  tell  the  story  of  our  hope. 

Tis  said  that  Simeon  and  Annie  old, 

Who  lived  within  the  temple  of  their  God, 

Foretold  that  He  would  save  the  world  from  sin. 

We're  told  that  angels  in  His  father's  ears, 

Foretold  the  anger  of  Judea's  king, 

While  he  upon  his  lowly  pallet  slept, 

That  he  in  fright  arose  and  slept  no  more, 

Until  the  Holy  Child  was  safe  beyond 

The  reach  of  all  who  sought  to  do  Him  harm. 

Tis  written  that  the  Child  of  earth  and  heaven, 
Lived  in  subjection  to  His  parents'  will, 
And  ne'er  but  once  His  will  to  theirs  opposed; 
And  grew  in  grace  and  stature  every  day, 
Until  He  reached  His  thirtieth  year  of  life, 
When  He  proclaimed  His  hour  had  fully  come, 
To  lift  the  world  in  love's  sublime  embrace. 

One  sent  of  God,  'neath  Jordan's  crystal  flood 
Baptized  him  as  the  man  of  Galilee; 
But  raised  Him  up  to  hear  the  voice  of  God 
Proclaim  Him  as  His  well  beloved  Son. 

The  blessed  Spirit  like  a  Dove  came  down 
And  led  Him  forth,  the  wilderness  within, 
To  meet  and  struggle  with  the  prince  of  sin; 
He  met  him  in  ambition,  pride  and  lust, 
Defeated  all  his  plans  for  human  shame, 
By  trusting  God  and  serving  Him  alone. 

Through  forty  days  of  sorrow — sick  and  sore, 
He  fought  the  tempter  with  the  Word  of  God, 
Nor  used  His  power,  His  hunger  to  abate; 
But  afterwards  He  used  His  gracious  power, 
To  feed  five  thousand  hungry  men  at  once, 
And  cure  their  hungry  breaking  hearts  as  well. 


He  still'd  the  tempest  and  the  storm  toss'd  sea, 
He  healed  the  leper  and  gave  sight  to  men, 
Who  from  their  birth  were  blind  until  that  hour. 
He  opened  ears  that  never  sound  had  heard, 
And  called  the  dead  forth  from  their  tombs  alive, 
To  witness  Him  as  God's  annointed  Son. 


In  three  short  years  He  filled  the  world  with  awe! 
No  word  He  wrote,  but  from  His  gracious  lips, 
Fell  words  that  filled  the  souls  of  men  wi;h  hope. 
Some  said,  uHe  speaks  as  one  of  God  possessed," 
Some  said,*  "The  devil  is  His  source  of  power," 
He  said,  "I  came  my  Father's  will  to  do." 


God  as  His  Father  and  Himself  a  King, 

His  enemies  accused  as  blasphemy, 

And  after  mocking  Him  they  nailed  Him  fast, 

And  let  Him  die  upon  the  cruel  tree. 

He  said  it  was  the  holy  will  of  God 

That  He  should  thus  be  put  to  shame  by  men 

And  bear  their  shame,  in  turn,  and  set  them  free. 


'Tis  said,  He  died,  'mid  taunts,  with  broken  heart, 
A  Roman  spear  was  thrust  into  His  side; 
They  laid  His  body  in  a  friend's  new  tomb, 
But  on  the  morning  of  the  third  day  He 
Arose,  and  put  the  Roman  guard  to  flight, 
Then  after  forty  days  to  heaven  returned. 


Thus  ends  the  story  of  His  earthly  life, 
All  wrapt  in  mystery  of  love's  own  choice 
And  told  and  told  again  and  lastly  writ, 
By  those,  'tis  said  on  whom  the  Spirit  came, 


The  centuries  between  His  life  and  mine, 
Forbid  that  I  this  mystery  explore, 
I  can  but  doubt,  believe,  re-read,  re-doubt, 
And  then  believe  once  more  with  all  my  heart. 


I  wonld  believe  the  story  as  'tis  told, 
If  reason  would  submit  to  love's  demands; 
But  reason  often  turns  my  thoughts  away 
And  leaves  my  love  to  struggle  with  my  doubts. 


But  why  should  reason  hold  so  high  a  place? 
My  understanding's  not  from  reason's  choice; 
The  God  within  me  knows  Himself  divine, 
And  thus  defies  cold  reason's  princely  claim. 


My  soul  believes  that  once  in  Galilee 
There  lived  a  lowly  peasant,  who  was  more 
Than  man  has  been,  on  earth,  since  time  began, 
That  He  withont  an  earthly  father  was 
Begotten,  and  of  a  pure  virgin  born, 
Tells  not  the  story  of  His  mighty  power. 
No  miracle  recorded  with  His  name, 
No  virgin  birth,  nor  resurrection  day 
Proclaims  Him  Godlike — 'tis  His  Love  alone. 


Photomount 

Pamphlet 

Binder 

Gaylord  Bros.,  Inc. 

Makers 
Stockton,  Calif. 

PAT.  JAN.  21.  1908 


YC  1 4599 


801890 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


